Twilight? How 'Bout Not?
by HonestyIsMyPolicy
Summary: Okay, so, this is a parody of Twilight where the more than her share of average Becca Swan deals with a nymphomaniac for a mom, a consistently drunk dad, a wannabe vampire stalker, some big-city-obsessed friends in need of some serious fashion tips, and a possible gentlemanly caller (gasp!) who may or may not be a werewolf. Has Becca found the Jacob to her Bella? Or not?


"No! Out, out! Get out! You, imbecile of darkness, are being creepy in a slightly stalker-ish and definitely pedophilic way!" I shove the boy with weirdly perfect hair that I'm pretty sure he uses friggin' cement to hold in place towards the window because, even though he is most definitely a perv, I'd rather not have to clean up the murder that would occur if my dad, the police chief, realized a boy is in my room at 2 am.

"But, Becca!" he whines, pushing back at me and accidentally shoving me so hard I flip over the bed. "Oh. Oops. Crap. Sorry."

I stand up, indignantly blowing a lock of hair out of my eyes, and point at the window. "Get. The. F. Out. Edward. This. Is. Not. A. Request!"

Now, this may be a suitably confusing place to start, which is my goal of course; please expect a major cliffhanger as well! I'm trying to write a best seller, sooooo, you know, I can't make anything simple and I have to throw in a lot of useless romantic scenes that do absolutely nothing for furthering the plot line but still make teenage girls go all weak in the knees.

"Pfft- you said a curse!" he giggles, putting an unnaturally pale hand over his mouth and batting his eyelashes suggestively. "Daddy needs to punish his little girl!" Edward hops over my bed, gets his foot caught on something, and tumbles face first to the hardwood floor in front of me.

"First of all, the letter 'F' is not a curse word; second of all, the whole daddy thing makes you seem even more like a pedophile than you already do; thirdly, stop crying like a toddler that fell off the swing set. It's neither attractive nor suave." Edward hiccups and wipes some tears off his face. I catch a glimpse of creamy, normal people skin underneath the heavy white makeup he wears.

"Also, stop wearing makeup. That's reserved for drama geeks and Goth kids, of which you are not. And, it may be too much to ask, but if you could stop acting like an 18th century woman with your swooning, eyelash batting, and period correct fan, that would be much appreciated." Edward dabs at his eyes with a hankie covered in strawberries. "Becca! What's goin' on up there? There best not be a boy in my little baby girl's room." Dad calls in his usual drunken garble.

"It's nothing, daddy! I was just playing with the cat!" Opal, my black cat- which, yes, I realize is bad luck, but if the vampire wannabe in my room isn't my life's share of walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, and having black cats cross my path bad luck, I don't know what is-, is currently grooming herself on my desk.

There's silence as his vodka-addled mind struggles to figure out whether his teenage daughter playing with a cat at 2 am is logical. "Okay, pumpkin. Don't stay up too late." I wait until I hear the creak of the door to his study closing before I let out an anxious breath.

"You have really nice knockers." Edward reaches a ghost pale hand up toward my boobs and I easily twist his arm behind his back until he sobs 'uncle!'.

"Out. Out, out, out!" I herd him over to the window like a little kid and point at the tree from whence he came. "Climb down quietly, and maybe your brains won't get splattered on the siding."

"Fair well for now, my cherry!" Edward leans towards me, puckering his red-lipstick-covered lips, and I smack him. "No more perverted behavior!" Then I shove him out the window, smirking as he thumps into the bushes; my room is only on the second floor, so there's no way he could have broken anything. Well, maybe there is, but I sure don't give a crap.

I shut and lock my window, set the metal baseball bat I've begun keeping by my bed beside the window, and crawl back under my crumpled duvet. Opal stretches languidly before returning to her spot in the middle of the pillow; I curse her existence and grab my laptop to e-mail my mom, because she thinks cell phones are the gateway to hell, so I can't text or call her.

_Hi, mom!_

_This place is by far the crappiest hell hole you have ever abandoned me in! I hope you know I utterly despise you and sincerely hope your new "beau" who's less than half your fifty years- which you don't look because- hello!- you used my college fund on plastic surgery- gives you herpes and gonorrhea! Also, I would not be the least bit upset if you were run over at seventy miles an hour by an eighteen wheeler and then dragged behind for so long that your body is too mangled to identify you!_

_Yours in passionate hatred,_

_Rebecca Xander (which isn't even a friggin' girls' name) Swan_

_P.S. I hope your liver fails!_

I seethe for a few more minutes, grinning with a burning hatred at the computer screen, remembering the day she dropped me off at the airport.

_A few weeks prior…_

"Oh, crap, oopsie!" Mom giggles as she swerves around oncoming traffic while deftly applying another coat of cherry red lipstick. I cower behind my hands, praying to every deity I know to not let me die like this.

"Oh, sweetie! Don't be scared; your dad isn't actually a sex offender or an escaped convict! I just told you that so you'd pick me at the custody trial!" Mom flips her board straight, golden hair over one shoulder while readjusting her bra so her saggy B's turn into a pair of perky C's. "Do you have any idea how completely messed up that is? Like, honestly? Because I don't think you do- argh!" I duck my head as mom narrowly misses a head on collision with a pickup truck that would obviously destroy our tiny VW bug that mom insists is 'hip'.

"Oh, don't be such a prude, Reba! I'm not going to wreck the car!" Mom rolls her eyes in the rearview mirror at Doug, her new boyfriend, who's completely engrossed in his PSP. I can vaguely detect the sounds of zombie moans and gunshots emanating from his earbuds. "Anyways, remember what mommy always says: first base is for pity, second base is for average, third base is for love, and home runs are reserved for perfection." She pats my knee reassuringly. "Oh, and mommy packed you some new push up bras and panties she bought from Victoria's secret; you don't want those sexy, sexy men seeing you in your Wal-Mart brand training bras and granny panties."

I gape at her, oblivious to the danger signs on the road for a moment, utterly stunned. "Mom, I'm not going to be whoring around!"

"Oh, of course you're not, sweetie!" she pats my leg again and leans in close, her lips against my ear. "Mommy put a brand new box of condoms in your carryon, okay? Just in case you find an attractive flight attendant; it's never too early to join the mile high club." I push her hand off, shivering as I ponder what she's been touching in the past 24 hours. "Thanks, mother, but that was unnecessary."

"Sure, sure!" Mom leans in even closer and I can feel her lipstick leaving a stain on my ear. "Mommy also put birth control in there; I got it when I took you to the lady doctor. You know how I said you might have ovarian cancer? Yeah, no, that was for the pills. So, don't worry, your uterus won't fall out if you get a little freaky in Washington."

I pretend- well, not really pretend- to gag; this is what my mother is. A disturbing nympho who teaches her daughter how to sneak a man into her bed. She hired a male stripper for my thirteenth birthday; she's been offering to get me a male prostitute for my sixteenth birthday, which she will be missing because she is following Doug around to all his not-even-close-to-major-league baseball games. "Okay, mom. Got it." I mutter.

The best tactic with my mother? Avoidance. But, when stuck in the car with her for the thirty minutes it takes to get to the airport, avoiding her is a bit trickier than just locking myself away in my bedroom. "Oh, and, also, no getting knocked up!" she laughs nervously. "Mommy doesn't want to be a grandmother until she's decaying six feet under, okay, honey?"

"There's no need to worry, mother; I will not be getting pregnant until I am firmly in my thirties." _Mostly because I know you'd get me on Sixteen and Pregnant if I did otherwise. _"Oh, good! Well, we're here! Have fun! I hope your plane doesn't drop out of the sky or blow up!" Then, in a whisper, she adds, "Because that's actually been happening a lot with this company. They have, like, an F- safety rating."

"Toodaloo!" she calls out the window. The VW speeds away from the sidewalk where she dumped me, my wheelie purple plastic suitcase, and my backpack, which apparently holds a plethora of contraceptives. The car then screeches to a stop, backs up quickly, and stops beside me.

"And here's some money!" Mom throws a few crumpled twenties out the window before speeding away, again. I stare after her for a minute before bending over and collecting the money and shoving it in the back pocket of my jeans.

The airport is dirty, smells distinctly of mildew and dead people, has homeless people living in it, and the security guards have fake guns and prison tats.

"How does a place like this even freaking exist?" I mumble under my breath. I stalk to the little plastic table with a perky blond seated behind it with a cardboard sign with the words "TICKET DEST K" written on it in black Sharpie.

"Hello there! How may I help you?" Her nametag identifies her as Veronica and her white blouse has ketchup- well, hopefully ketchup- stains all over it. "Um. I have a ticket for the 9 am flight to Washington?" I hand her the tiny slip of paper mom printed off line for me. "Oh, yeah. That's over there, in B terminal. Drunk Tommy is flying that. Oh. Well. Um, have a nice flight!" She seems slightly less perky as I shamble away and I swear I see her doing the sign of the cross and shaking her head sadly.

_A few hours later…_

I sit with my head between my knees in the handicap stall of the women's bathroom of an airport that actually resembles an airport- specifically, Sea-Tac airport. I let out a shaky breath, attempt to hold down the banana bread mom let me eat this morning instead of the regular NutriSystem bar she forces down my throat, and try to pretend I didn't almost feel like death was imminent on the flight I just took.

After ten minutes of shaky breathing, I exit the stall, wash my hands, and leave, dragging the bag I already retrieved from the baggage carousel behind me. My backpack thumps comfortingly between my shoulder blades as I weave through the crowds of people, straightening up to my depressing full height of 5' 2 3/4".

"Rebecca! Reba, over here!" I wince at my horrendous nickname- no offense to the name, I just don't look like a Reba- and trudge over to my biological father, Chuck. The stench of alcohol and weed is so pungent I almost yak all over his wrinkled police chief uniform. "I go by Becca now." I whisper petulantly.

"Okay, well, Becca, yer chariot awaits!" Chuck takes my wheelie suitcase and backpack forcibly and we begin the silent trek to his police car, which he left the siren and flashing lights on in. People give us odd looks as we hop in and drive away, Chuck hopping curbs and driving in serpentine patterns.

"You grew your hair out." He accuses.

I run my fingers through my pageboy cut and think of how my hair used to reach my butt. "Yeah, dad, I grew it out."

"It looks real nice on you, Becca. Real nice." His eyelids droop and he sips from a flask. I contemplate making him pull over so I can drive and we have the optimal chances for surviving the drive to the miniscule town he lives in, Pork's, but decide against it because, even intoxicated, Chuck is a better driver than my mother.

I slip in my earbuds and queue up some music before typing out an e-mail for my mother, which I will be unable to actually send until I find wi-fi.

_Hey, mom._

_So, I very much appreciate your unceremonious dumping of me at the door of the airport with cardboard signs, convicted criminals for security guards, and Port-a-potties for bathrooms and I am quite impressed with the lengthy precautions you have instilled so that I do not follow in your sluttish footsteps of knocked-up-dom at, gasp, thirty-four, but which you insist was at sixteen, even though you know I've seen your birth certificate._

_So, Chuck isn't a child molester, but his is apparently a total drunkard, who most likely smokes weed as well, but I'm just going on my nose's assumptions for that second one._

_I sincerely hope you understand you are the worst mother in the history of the human race and that you will most likely be damned for eternity for sending your daughter to her almost death in an airport with an F- safety rating and allowing her to live with someone who has no qualms with driving while firmly under the influence._

_May Hades's flames fry you!_

_Rebecca Xander (which is a boys' name, BTW) Swan_

I think about sending it- I really do. It would certainly get my anger out. Maybe mom would even have an epiphany and realize she should become a better parent. The most likely response, however, is for her to call me whilst sobbing hysterically on a payphone- because she doesn't do cell phones- and call me a meanie head, per usual.

I suppress a sigh, backspace through the entire message, and tap out a new e-mail.

_Hey, mom,_

_Things are good here so far; the airport wasn't really so bad. To borrow the words of some HGTV people, it "has character". Chuck seems nice. The scenery isn't too bad. I got a banana and a pack of peanuts at Sea-Tac, so, dw, I'm not starving._

_Hope you and Doug are having a good time!_

_Lots of love,_

_Becca 3_

When we stop at McDonald's so Chuck can get a cup of coffee and attempt to sober up, I use the wi-fi to send the e-mail that makes my soul hurt with how much all of that was an utter lie. I watch some dumb vines of people getting injured; I order a hot chocolate, which scalds the roof of my mouth with its delicious chocolatiness, and flick through my news app. A celebrity got charged with public indecency, there was an earthquake, somebody was brutally murdered, et cetera, et cetera.

I look out the window at the overflowing green of the landscape and the abundance of trees and other plants, admiring nature. "Jeez Louise, am I drunk!" Chuck laughs drunkenly as he pours some vodka into his small coffee.

That's when I realize: my life officially sucks.


End file.
